Turn and Face the Strange
by sakurasencha
Summary: For Sybil and Branson, a single moment changes everything. Set after the count in Ripon.


_I know my stories up to now have generally not reflected it, but I am a HUGE Sybil/Branson fan, so this fic is a bit self-indulgent. This is also my first foray into romance (so please tread carefully!), a genre that I've come to find is incredibly difficult to write. Mad props to all you romance writers out there!_

_Also mad props, and a million thanks, so the amazing AriadneO for the beta :)_

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><p>He can pinpoint the exact moment when it happened.<p>

An influx of bodies pressed against them on all sides, a hot exchange followed by a flash of movement – himself too far to aid. He saw her body shoved violently down, heard the loud crack of her skull against the table, and it was then, Branson knew, that everything had changed.

He had been taught that change, by nature, came gradually; that imperceptible shifts in the day-to-day accumulate to irrevocable alteration in aggregate. He viewed with anticipation the altering path his country trod, wanted to be of those who charted the course towards liberalism and progression. Seeing clearly society's intended destination, he would not be numbered among those unaware of the changing times, clinging to anachronism, marching forward in blissful ignorance only to one day find themselves teetering at the edge of a cliff.

Except Branson can feel himself falling over the precipice now, as Lady Sybil lies prostrate on the cobbled ground, unnaturally still, and her young face so deathly pale that it stops his breath. Mr. Crawley brushes her temple, and his hand returns with fingers that are wet with blood.

"Oh, God, please no!"

A somewhat melodramatic remark, he would later own. But at the time, with his heart beating so rapidly, and the torrent of a thousand things he never realized, or at least never admitted to, bombarding him with no respite, he couldn't stop his mouth from giving utterance to the first thought that leapt to his heart.

The mob is unmoved by the fate of its victim, and pushes against them with increased intensity. No time for indecision or discussion, so he scoops her up without another word and carries her away from the violence.

He focuses on Mr. Crawley's back carving out a path through the crowd, tries to ignore the weight of her in his arms—how incredibly light she feels, how her body's never been so near to his before. How it certainly never will be again. He can hear her beginning to stir over the roar of the riot that grows distant with their retreat, and glancing down, he just catches a low and quiet groan escape her lips that restores his eyes straightaway to Mr. Crawley's back.

It's time immeasurable to Branson's panicked mind, but in reality only seconds till they reach the car and he gently places her in the back seat while Mr. Crawley enters through the other side. Hovering over her for a brief instant, he can see her eyes shifting behind their closed lids, and almost reaches down a hand to brush away the dark strands hanging limply over her face before he is checked by Mr. Crawley's voice.

"That will be enough, Branson." The words are terse, laced with accusation, and said with no attempt to hide their anger. "Take us to Crawley House, at once."

Branson looks up sharply, matches the hardened countenance flinging disapproval and fault. He knows Mr. Crawley blames him for the entire affair. But concern for his charge outweighs any wounded pride, and he doesn't think to defend himself.

The time that had slowed on their way to the car makes up for itself on the drive to Crawley House, and in what seems like only an exhale they've already arrived, Lady Sybil is quickly carried in, and Branson is summarily dismissed with orders to return to Downton and fetch Lady Mary. Standing outside the threshold for a few moments, he stares intently at the door Mr. Crawley just shut in his face, and wishes that he could at least see her eyes when they first reopen.

His hands are shaking slightly when he starts up the engine and clambers into the driver's seat. The pulsing adrenaline is starting to run its course; the short and quiet drive to the great house slowly replaces the alert anxiety with heavy weariness and remorse. He's not sure exactly what he should be sorry for, but Branson feels deep down that he's somehow not wholly without blame in all of this.

He encouraged her interests, watered the soil of rebellion whose flower grew to be neither sweet nor harmless. If he'd cultivated more carefully, balanced her burgeoning zeal with the weight of responsibility and realism, then perhaps she would not have acted so rashly, and their tentative friendship, that comfortable camaraderie they'd slowly built over the past year, would not have to suffer the change because of it.

That it must change, he was certain. The strike of her head was like the click of a switch, turning on a lamp in his mind, at once illuminating all that was hidden, but really only casting light on what had been there all along. And those few fleeting words, the ones he'd felt earlier but had not yet formulated into acknowledgement, suddenly brand themselves so forcefully inside that it stops his breath for the second time that day.

He's in love with Lady Sybil Crawley.

His hands clench the steering wheel tightly at the full admission, overwhelming and exhilarating and terrifying all at once. Rationally he understands that it's impossible, hopeless, unfathomable, and all the other nevers he can think of. But Branson's idealism is more than just philosophic, and there's still a tiny corner of his brain that can't stop from wondering if there's more to Lady Sybil's show of modernity than wearing expensive pantaloons and getting knocked down at political rallies.

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><p>She wakes the next morning, and the first thing Sybil feels is a dull throb in her head, the second a sharp guilt piercing her side. She's still tired, not in the groggy, bleary-eyed way of early mornings, but the type of fatigue where every limb feels weighted down with leaden flesh too heavy to bear. She wonders that no one had come to wake her, and with great effort she pulls herself out of bed, leaves the bell untouched, and decides to try and dress herself.<p>

The adrenaline that had carried her through last night's difficulties is all but drained away, the buzzing energy that had crackled through the air is this morning reduced to a quiet hum. Last night, courage coursed through her veins. She felt empowered then, and full of strength. What a fine show for women's rights, she had thought, a grand blow to patriarchal rule and oppression!

Now she can barely manage to slip on a simple day dress without her vision swimming and the floor heaving unsteadily beneath her feet. Not quite the picture of independence and self-reliance she had hoped for, and she quickly sits down to regain her balance.

She sinks into the thick upholstery and brings up a hand to cover her eyes, shielding them from the fresh clarity that streams in with the morning light through the window. The bright rays have dispelled her murky triumph of the night before, and the clearness of a new day sheds its light on the true nature of her recklessness: her lies and disobedience have achieved nothing for women, and her deception has proved to be injurious to more than just herself.

An apology is owed to Branson, of that she is certain. She's afraid this horrid episode may have changed whatever companionship and trust they've fostered between them, and she can only hope that his forgiving spirit is as liberal as his political views.

But there are greater hurdles that must first be overcome. Her father had agreed to postpone her full admonishment till this morning, and she decides not to wait any longer. As soon as she feels well again, she gets up and rings the bell for Anna, and when the maid arrives and finishes the paltry start Sybil had made to her toilette, she sends her back to inform Papa that she will see him shortly.

Chin up, shoulders back, her voice suitably contrite; the reckoning is quickly over and without much severity. It seems the night has also suffered to lend its hindsight to her father, and in the end a reproach tempered with affection is all she receives in recompense.

She is genuinely sorry for all the trouble she's caused, so she promises to never disobey again, and to rein in her recent interest in politics. The disapproving frown on his face dissolves into the smile of paternal warmth she's accustomed to, and she breathes a mental sigh of relief, sure that all has ended well and safely. Her assurance doesn't last long, however, when just as she makes to depart, he stops her with the allusion that her interest can never truly wane without disposing of its source.

She fires up and faces him fully, arms akimbo. "You haven't fired Branson, have you? I told you he had nothing to do with it!"

"Nothing to do with it?" he parrots her words with disbelief. "When I know full well that before he set foot in this house your only diversions were choosing new frocks and helping one of the housemaids to become a secretary?"

She bristles at the frank dismissal of her pursuits, but knows that she's not fighting her own battle, and must not think to defend herself.

"I lied to him as well as you," she presses earnestly. "He knew nothing at all about any of it, and wanted to come back immediately once he knew the truth. Indeed, he even thought of you, and said you wouldn't approve of my being there."

"I have no plans to fire Branson for _your_ misconduct," he informs her, much to her relief and shame. Her head's still raised level with his, but it shifts to the side to avoid his gaze, and the hands that have moved to clasp behind her back twist their fingers nervously.

"And he may not have been directly responsible," he continues, "but he's not wholly without blame. I know what his beliefs are, Sybil. They're dangerous, and unfit for those of our station. I don't–" he stops mid-speech, and when seconds go by without comment she moves her face back to meet his. His eyes cling to hers like a child to a runaway kite, fearful of the changing winds, and unwilling to let go.

"I don't want him encouraging you."

Her fire's back, for not even this episode can completely eradicate her rebelliousness. She tightens her lips and bites her tongue, but still can't keep from telling him that she needs no encouragement to think for herself.

He's unimpressed.

"Be that as it may, either his influence over you or his employment at Downton will end today."

She visibly scoffs.

"Don't be unreasonable –"

"Do I make myself clear?" he warns, each syllable enunciated with determination. His face is impenetrable, his feet like anchors set firmly planted to resist the winds of change that threaten to steer his household off course.

Young and strong headed as she is, she knows that look, the one impossible to sway, and how to pick the battles that are worth fighting and those best to parley. She yields.

"Yes, father."

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><p>Living her whole life in a house filled with people has made Sybil adept at sneaking, and she puts those skills to good use now, stealing away from the house when she's supposed to be resting, extracting a promise from a reluctant Anna to keep visitors at bay with excuses of indisposition and fatigue.<p>

"I won't be gone very long," she explains to the maid. "Surely not more than an hour. But I owe Branson an apology for this mess I've involved him in, and–" she pauses, recalling her father's earlier resolve that any further interaction with the chauffeur be severed.

"And I'm not certain when next I'll get the chance."

It's difficult work spanning the distance between the main house and the garage. Sybil trips along, convincing herself that her slow progress is all due her sore and aching body, and not any trepidation over the upcoming task, wondering all the while where the brave front she put on for her father has abandoned her to.

When nearly there, she chides herself first for her cowardice, and then again for the lack of faith in her friend – that he _is _her friend she suddenly realizes, when she spies the back of his figure hunched over a workbench. For what else could she call him? Surely not just a servant, simply another member of the staff; not when the words and ideas had flowed so fast and comfortable between them, like two fish on opposite ends of the same stream. It should ease her discomfort, she thinks, this new comprehension. Except she's not sure whether friendship will make the reconciliation easier or harder.

Although still some yards off, and so still able to slip back to the house without anyone being the wiser, she decides she'd do better to buck up and go face the victim of her machinations. But when she tries to take another step, she finds her feet have grown roots, embedded themselves firmly into the ground without her mind's permission, and bridges the gap with her voice instead. She's injured, after all, and Branson can just as well come to her as she to him.

"Branson!" she calls out.

He turns at her voice, betrays his surprise with a slight start, and puts down his tool. It's something Sybil doesn't recognize, and her curiosity is stayed by the palpable uneasiness stretching taut between them.

"Lady Sybil," he says. The tension doesn't snap at his voice, and instead grows tighter with each second he stands there, silent and staring. His scrutiny is starting to make her uncomfortable, until at last he looks away and reaches for a rag hanging on the wall to wipe his greasy hands.

He conveys a blend of wariness and concern as he moves towards her and asks, "What are you doing here, m'lady? Are you all right? Are you recovered?" She barely has time to answer that she's perfectly fine, just a bit of ache left in her head, before he presses again.

"You should be back at the house, resting."

She flashes a sunny smile, employs the honeyed voice that usually manages to charm and prevail. "I'm quite rested enough, really. There's no need to worry. Cousin Isobel's looked me over and cleared me of any lasting damage. She even said that a bit of exercise, a short walk, would do me good and might speed my recovery."

He doesn't look convinced.

"It's not a short walk over here from the house," he argues. "You shouldn't have come out here on your own. Suppose something had happened?"

"But nothing did happen!" she almost rebukes. A subtle stiffening in his posture is enough to make her regret her sharpness, and to recall her earlier impudence – _Really, Branson, I thought I gave the orders – _and when she speaks again her voice softens with more than a little contrition.

"Please, Branson, I'm perfectly fine; really I am. But I needed to come here, and speak with you about yesterday," she pleads; and when his eyes unlock from hers and his head flickers to the side in consideration, she knows she's all but won her point, and can't forbear to add, "And I won't leave until I do."

Branson's face shifts back at the warning. She has that glint in her eye – a spark of defiance mixed with conviction – the one he knows is impossible to sway.

"If you're determined to have your own way, then at least come inside and sit down before you topple over," he concedes, turning around to lead the way, before casually adding that he doesn't think his Lordship would be keen on having him carry her about two days in a row.

Sybil's immediately grateful for his turned back, and that he's missed the horrified blush his words have painted over her face. She'd been so sure that cousin Matthew had been the one burdened to carry her dead weight all over Yorkshire, and the thought that not 24 hours ago she was being hefted about in this man's arms makes her palms start to sweat in a way that has nothing to do with the unseasonably warm Spring morning.

Once inside, Branson indicates a low bench in the back corner, and when she's finally seated and he comes round to sit beside her, she doesn't waste any time. "I've come to tell you how sorry I am," she starts, "for lying to you. It was wrong, and foolish of me, and – I didn't think about what might happen if I was found out – what it would mean for you or your job. After the rally and all the canvassing, I was so consumed by the excitement of it all. I wanted to be there when they announced the winner, to see with my own eyes if everything I'd worked for had paid off. I wanted –" she cuts herself off, realizing that her apology is quickly descending into excuse. Branson's keen eyes haven't once wandered from her own, and Sybil shields herself from their sting by glancing down at the gloved hands folded neatly in her lap, before finally blurting out what it is she means to say.

"I'm so sorry, Branson. I hope that you aren't too angry for what I've done, and that you can forgive me."

Her breath stops while she waits for his answer, accompanied by a dizzy weightlessness that feels nothing so much as falling from a great height.

"I'm not angry," he replies with a kindness that deflates her anxiety and gives her the courage to return her gaze to his. "And I never was. Yes, you shouldn't have lied, but I know what it's like to want to be involved in something bigger than yourself, to be the one out there driving change and progression. There aren't many in your station who care for those things, m'lady, and that's nothing to be sorry for." It's all said with the same passion of every word that chances to fall from Branson's lips, but it's the intensity in his eyes, a blue flame that burns away any lingering doubt or fear, that assures her of his sincerity.

"Thank you, Branson," she exhales, awash with relief and gratitude, indulging in a playful smile before admitting, "Although I almost wish you would be at least a little angry with me. Papa insists that I stop being political, and while I have no intention of ever giving in, perhaps with your disapproval I may learn to feel properly ashamed."

"Well I'm sorry to disappoint you, m'lady, but I don't disapprove, and if anything I'd probably just encourage your bad habits." His mouth had formed a smile to match her own, but it slips to gravity when he confesses, "I don't know how I could have managed to be angry with you after seeing you fall like that. I was more frightened for you than anything, and mostly I'm just relieved that you weren't too badly hurt."

Sybil frowns slightly before protesting, "I appreciate your concern, but I can't think that I was the one to suffer most. _I_ only came away with a small bump on the head, while _you _nearly got fired!"

"That doesn't matter!" he says too quickly, and also too much in earnest, for she's suddenly overcome with the desire to scoot away. "I can always get another job, m'lady, but if something had happened to you, I don't–" He stops, closes his mouth, glances briefly at the car, and then continues. "We were all very worried about you."

Her dropped eyes and pursed lips betrays that she's feeling ashamed all over again, and he hastens to add, "The accident wasn't your fault, so don't go apologizing for that as well."

"I won't, then," she promises, smiling, just as a breeze drifts in that lifts off any remnants of uneasiness and carry it away. The air between them flows fast and comfortable again, and she feels safe enough to venture, "You should know, I threatened Papa quite magnificently when he suggested turning you out into the night."

Branson sounds particularly gratified at her interference on his behalf when he admits, "I had heard about that. His Lordship actually told me."

"So you've already seen him?"

"Yes, he sent for me earlier this morning."

"I hope he wasn't very dreadful."

"No, not very," he lies, doing his best not to cast his eyes to the roof at the remembrance. "His Lordship is a fair man. Said he knew I wasn't all to blame, and that he trusted I'd go about my duties more carefully in the future."

"I can't imagine what he means by that," she lies in return, almost certain she's knows exactly what her father meant. Branson frames his next words very carefully.

"It seems he doesn't quite like how easy things have become between us."

"Yes, he said as much to me," she informs him rather glumly.

Branson sighs and turns to stare at the immaculate landscape out of the open carport. "Maybe he's right." Then, looking back to her, "You think there might be some…wisdom in what he said?"

She considers his question, but the thought that their relationship would sink to the archaic "yes my lady; no my lady", that every question she pestered him with, whether political or no, would be met with the concise dissembling of a proper servant, seems suddenly unbearable.

"Of course not!" she huffs out a little too vehemently. "I think it's ridiculous. Why shouldn't we be friends?" Expecting hearty agreement, his ensuing silence makes her waver, and she tentatively suggests, "But then, I suppose it's not my job that's at stake, is it?"

He takes his time in replying, and it flashes through her mind that she's never been so near to him before. Unbidden she wonders if she ever will be again – inside her heart accelerating to new and frantic paces, outside her palms growing slick and wet once more – and Sybil thinks it's somehow not right to be so flustered in Branson's presence.

"Like I said, m'lady, I can always get another job."

The words are innocuous enough, but it's his eyes that threaten, blazing again with that fierce blue fire. Except now it's no longer contained to the iris, and Sybil feels the flames lick at her face and singe her hair. She inhales deeply to steady her staggering breath, but hanging heavy in the air is the smell of petrol and oil, thick and heady fumes that need only a single spark to make the whole place ignite.

Alarms ring out. There's danger here. She must make her escape.

"I should be getting back," she says, abruptly standing. "I told Anna I would only be gone an hour, and someone's sure to come check on me soon."

She only fidgets for a moment before she's ready to depart, but before she does she turns to face him one last time.

"Goodbye, Branson. And I know I've said so already, but thank you. Your forgiveness really does mean much to me." She leaves, not waiting to hear his farewell, and for all her slowness in coming her legs now carry her double time back to the house.

Branson watches her go, and knows she doesn't feel it. Not fully, and not yet. But she's starting to. The change in their relationship, the vines that have gripped him and are even now suffocating him with awareness and desire, are still only the barest of tendrils to her young and guileless understanding.

She's already gone a ways off, but not so far that the garage is no longer within eyesight. Against all reasonable inclination she turns around to peek back. Branson is still there, watching her, facing her with strange and thrilling possibilities.

END

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><p><em>I always wanted to see Sybil apologize to Branson after the count. Anyway, I'm fairly certain these two will find a thousand ways to break my heart in Season 2 (and beyond?). I will keep my fingers crossed for their happy ending!<em>


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